Hope He's not Like Me
by PikaCheeka
Summary: about Lucius. It goes up to Draco's first words, the first time he ever hurt his father and so on until he is sixteen...kind of hard to explain, It's from Lucius's view


I know there have been several fics done using the song 'Arms Wide Open', about Harry, Voldemort, yadda yadda. Heh heh. Guess who this is about? Yea, you're right. This is PikaCheeka, who else could it be about? I can just see D.M.P. laughing hysterically at this statement. Shut up!

I deleted the song for new rules...it wasn't so important anyway. Blah. Sorry! Hopefully you will get the irony anyhow.

This is a rather old fic that I started quite a few months ago, as soon as this song came out, actually. But I have been continually putting it off because I am having demented nightmares about Lucius and writing a fic about him being emotionally hurt doesn't help them at all. But I put on the radio today. Arms Wide Open. Arms Wide Open. Three times IN A ROW on the SAME STATION. If that isn't a twisted omen, what is? And...the second I finished this, I went in my room, the radio was on I didn't turn it on and it was Arms Wide Open.

Angst! Bwahahahahahahahahaha!

**Hope He's Not Like Me...**

By PikaCheeka

I sighed and leaned back against the wall, beating my head on it lightly to pass the time. I was at the hospital, one of the few remaining for wizards. Most just go to a muggle one. Idiots. But then again, this place had a rather creepy air to it. I had been here once, when my mother was dying, other then that, I was new. Not a soul knew me. If that wasn't bad enough, they continually give me odd looks, as if they know I'm a Death Eater.

I have been here for two hours already. A long time to me, seeing as I am always full of nervous energy. I need to do something every three seconds or my brain starts to slide.

It is night.

Two hours.

I haven't done a thing for two hours.

At that moment, the door in front of me opened. I had slid down the wall and was sitting there, staring at the ceiling. I jumped forward and glanced up at the nurse.

She gave me an odd look. "There are several problems..."

"What?" I almost shouted.

"Your son is sick. Very. If he lives to be two, it will be a miracle." She said it so severely and coldly it was sickening.

But the words themselves were what got me.

I fainted.

"Never thought you would be one to faint." Someone said calmly.

"What?" I said groggily, sitting up again. I was in my house again, and there was no telling how long I had been there.

"I apparated you, do not think it would be a good idea for you to be lying on the hospital floor." It was Voldemort. Voldemort? I jumped to attention, wondering what he would do to me for being weak, but my knees were weak.

"Is that true about my son?" I choked out, it was all coming back now.

"Well...yes...I saw him. Better to kill him as soon as he comes home. The doctors don't even know what's wrong with him. And if he is going to be following in your footsteps, which I assume he will...he can not be weakened by young sicknesses. If he does survive after a few months, kill him. If not, don't worry about it."

I starred at him for a long time, unable to understand what he was saying.

"You want me to kill...Draco?" I asked after a moment.

"You already named him? And he's going to die so soon?" Voldemort laughed quietly.

I scowled. I had named him already, but only because leaving him nameless was calling him dead. And even if he didn't survive, at least he would have a name to be remembered by. A name to be put on a gravestone..."Yes, I have named him." I said defiantly.

"Ah, I see..."

He didn't. He never does. He hates me, I can tell, because I love, and he does not. He hates me because I have someone to love, and now another. So he wants me to kill him quickly. Damn him, what are the chances of him surviving anyway?

I hated Voldemort.

He growled something I didn't hear and apparated at that moment, leaving me alone. "I have some important business to take care of." He said calmly. I didn't move.

My whole life was a desperate fight it seemed. I was a Malfoy, yes, but a hopeless romantic as well. A genius who was constantly getting in trouble at school for hurting people. People who insulted my parents, even though I hated them. I suppose I started most of the fights, but that was because of all the hurt inside. For my parents hated me, feared me, for my own intelligence. In the end, when I was seventeen, my father killed my mother over some petty thing and Voldemort told me to kill him.

Kill him and I could join the Dark Side, where Voldemort could be a real father to me, someone who never had one. You know what? He lied. I killed him, and killed part of me at the same time. I killed the man who hated me. And I cried for years after. I woke up screaming some nights.

And Voldemort lied. He was nothing like a father to me. He hated me as well, he was using me. But by then, I was a murderer, and ingenious murderer, and I had nowhere to go, no one to run to. So I stuck it out for six long years, living alone.

I met Narcissa a long time ago, when I was fourteen. She got lost for a long time in the rampage Voldemort caused. We met up again when I was twenty-three, and I got married immediately. Voldemort had promised he would not take us away too much from our families. He lied again. I saw her maybe one or two days a week. And if I didn't go to him? Both of us would die.

But why did I care? She hated me too, it was an arranged marriage. It seemed everyone hated me, and I don't know why...

Now I am twenty-six, and my first son was just born. Born dead. Took ten minutes to get him to breathe, and that was by magic. If I had gone to a muggle hospital? Dead, forever. And now he's sick and dying. He will be forever until he finally grows too weak and gives in.

But Voldemort won't let me have even those few weeks, months, maybe even years. He was giving me a few months. Either Draco died, or all three of us did. I would gladly throw myself down for him, but he really had no chance.

Draco had no chance...it echoed in my mind for a long time, the truth sickening and blood-red. And yet it was as black as the sky above. How long would it be? Would he live long enough for me to get to know him? Or would he die soon? Or what if he is already dead?

Something banged on the door suddenly. I jumped. "Damn it...go away..." I wanted to yell, then rush to the door and kill whoever was there. Ironic, all my life spent as a Death Eater has taught me that killing is the easiest way out of difficult situations. It is now too, kill Draco, and I'm safe.

Unless, of course, he's dead.

I sighed and headed toward the door.

It was Fudge.

"You're a Death Eater, aren't you?"

I glared. The moon behind him made him appear black. "What? You're going to arrest me now? Right after my son is born?" I hissed, fingering my wand in my pocket, ready to kill him if needed. Nobody was going to take me away from Draco.

Even if I wasn't allowed to love him.

Voldemort is dead. He died trying to kill that Potter boy he's been ranting about for years. Fudge told me. I will never admit it to anyone, but I owe that Potter child something. I do not know if Draco will live, but he has a better chance now.

And I am free to love him now.

5 years later...

He had survived so far. After five long years, he was still alive. He had spent half his life in the hospital, and a quarter of his life dying. But the worst is over, the doctors say. Not that they ever knew what was wrong with him. One thing remained. He didn't talk.

Voldemort, of course, did not come to kill him. If he had? If he was alive? Probably all three of us would be dead. For I could not give Draco up.

I sheltered him, I suppose he never had a great life, being protected constantly. Unable to play with any other kids for fear they hurt him, never allowed outside too long for he sometimes bled in the sun, never able to fool around in case he hurt himself or ran out of air in his lungs.

Any slip, any sign of my being stupid, could cause him to die.

Then he stopped eating.

He was five, and both of us were wandering outside in the muggle town. It was cloudy, but no hint of freezing rain, so we were safe. It had been a bad day. He had wanted to go to some muggle playground, and I had let him, but made sure he didn't do anything stupid. He looks only three, except his eyes look ten, so he looked like a very small eight-year-old. Perfect target for muggle bullies living in the slums.

I never knew muggle kids could be so cruel

They followed him around for a while. He was stupid as well, although he couldn't help it. They told him he had to pay for them to leave. He had paid ten galleons. They had never seen gold before, and attacked him for more.

I had beaten them all badly, one was dead, for I had my wand up my sleeve. But who would care? Who would notice a dead street kid?

But Draco was upset, he somehow twisted it so I had tried to kill him. He didn't talk, of course, but I understood. He's easy to read.

I had tried to explain to him, but he didn't understand. So I took him to some food place, I didn't bother with a sign. And he wouldn't eat. I didn't care then.

But after a few days, he still wouldn't eat, and Narcissa panicked. She left to some great big hospital somewhere to get medicine of some sort, and left me with him.

He was still upset. He cried whenever I had my wand near him.

And she left me alone when I was particularly upset. He was sitting there in one of the armchairs, pouting and glaring at me nervously. I twirled my wand around, not taking my eyes away from his. I felt like I was training a dog not to cringe to a stick. I felt slightly guilty, cruel.

After a few minutes, he came over and took my wand. He threw it on the floor and stepped on it, his eyes clearly saying 'I killed it'.

You never ever touch someone else's wand and try to destroy it. I snatched it back viciously and he burst into tears.

And he spoke.

"You hate me Father. You hate me because I am weak."

I lost it then. I hit him.

He had then vanished somewhere, leaving me alone. He had never spoken until then, and he had spoken a lot, and clearly. He must have been brooding over saying that. And for how long? Days? Weeks? Months? _Years?_ He must have hated me, I realized. I was not a good father. He was dying, and dying children should have the best lives possible, and yet, I kept him for myself. I wouldn't let him do anything that was risky in the least, and killed for him, so he wouldn't have fun and die for it.

So I wouldn't lose my son.

I silently hoped that when he had a child, that child would not be like him, and he would not be like me. For the world does not need another cruel, selfish Malfoy.

I was so damn selfish.

And now he is older. Much older. He has been going to school for six years now. His seventh is soon to begin. Tonight is his sixteenth birthday.

He seems to have forgotten his first words to me. Or maybe he pretends he never said them. I can not be sure. But I can tell that he does, still, fear me. So he must remember that incident, at least.

I sighed and shifted position, not taking my eyes off the fire before me. 

He came up behind me quietly, I never heard him, until he was there. He stood beside my chair his eyes silver from the fire.

"Father?" he asked suddenly.

"What?" I said in monotone.

"I was talking with...my friends...and we were talking about our first words. What were mine?"

"You hate me Father. You hate me because I am weak." I whispered, avoiding his eyes.

He laughed. "You're kidding...I'll go ask Mother. Why so sad?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He left.

To him, love is weak.

"You hate me Son. You hate me because I am weak." I whispered, although there was no one to hear. And I am weak, because I cried then.


End file.
